Californian submerged in Southern culture

“Thanks, y’all, I appreciate yah,” a phrase my waitress uttered at least five times during my first experience at a southern diner. Famished after almost a full day of travel, I didn’t mind the excessive butter on almost all of my food and grits coming whether I liked it or not.

I spent my spring break in South Carolina. As someone who was born and raised in the Bay Area, making me the only guy in a 20-mile radius of the state that owns a tie-dye shirt, I experienced a bit of a culture shock.

I’m all for gender-inclusive pronouns, but when I say “excessive use,” I ‘hella’ mean it. Locals seemed to say this just about every sentence, an absolute staple of their vocabulary. I challenge anyone to leave a South Carolina store without hearing “y’all come back now.”

So many pickup trucks.

With construction workers in my family and Chico being surrounded by nature and farmland, I like to think I have a fairly high tolerance for pickup trucks. However, South Carolina felt like a new level. Trust me, at any given time, there were enough pickup trucks on any mile-long stretch of highway to put Chico’s Alpha Gamma Rho fraternity house driveway to shame.

Southerners love their plaid shirts.

Don’t believe me? At any crowded bar, it was like I was pushing my way through Larry the Cable Guys’ wet dream. After parting a checkered sea, I actually found it refreshing to order a drink from a man wearing a bro tank that read, “you can’t lasso a tornado.”

A lot of well-groomed dogs.

Everyone and their mother seemed to have a well-trained, well-groomed dog. One of the local bars I went to even have “yappy hour” where people could let their dogs play in the bar’s fenced-off back patio. I love animals, so this was a really redeeming quality.

It wasn’t all bad, but by the end of the week, my head was swimming. I don’t think I’ll ever really fit in down south.